


Spring Days

by Avocadoz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Arya/Gendry, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sansa deserves lemon cakes and orgasms, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-08-09 20:36:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avocadoz/pseuds/Avocadoz
Summary: Theon and Sansa after the war.





	1. Chapter 1

He is so focused on Sansa´s safety that they might as well still be running through the frozen woods. It is a similar tension, him wanting to save her and the overwhelming fear that he might fail at just that. 

He allows her to bring food to his room, but he does not speak to her or go to her when the dreams capture his mind and makes him forget. Most nights, he does not sleep at all, sitting by the window, listening to the wind and counting the stars in the sky. When they see each other, he is polite, anxious, always in a hurry to leave. She always looks exahausted, but the cuts and burns has long since faded into nothing but thin white lines on her fair skin. He supposes his has too, though he never bothers to look.

Arya checks on her sister now and then, and visits by Jon are much appreciated by everyone in the castle. He rules in King´s Landing now, with his little daughter Lyanna Targaryen, Davos Seaworth and Tyrion Lannister. More and more people has begun to return to the north, and Theon avoids them all. He makes a grave for Yara by the west coast, on the beach, and rides to visit her when he can. Sitting beside the stone for hours at a time, picking up seashells and blue wild flowers from the sand and placing them below her name, wondering if he will ever see her again. When the weather gets warmer he walks into the ocean and floats around in the water, sometimes glancing up at the sky and sometimes trying to reach the bottom of the sea. He hates the feeling of being suffocated, but somehow cannot stop himself from keeping his head below the surface.

One day, after supper, he walks down into the crypts where no one but the ghosts can see him with a dagger in hand. He uses it to draw a line across his wrist, slowly, testing. He can barely feel it, so he does it again, harder, watching in detached fascination as the blood beads, dark red pearls that flows out of the wound and slide down his pale arm. He likes this, because this is a sort of pain that he can control. It is his and his alone, and for a blissful moment, it washes away the guilt and the grief, quiets the noise in his head. It calms him, and then it does not. It fades away, and then he is back.  

Disappointed, he hurries back upstairs and hides in his room, wiping away the blood with a piece of cloth. 

Sansa sometimes brings him sweets; lemon cakes, muffins, sweetened apples or whatever else she has been distracting herself with baking that day. She often sits down on his bed, trying to talk to him, but he never says much. Sometimes they do not speak at all. The afternoon after his little experiment, she peers at his arm, biting her lip.

“What happened?” She asks, pointing at his wrist.

He scoffs, shaking his head.“Tripped." He tells her, staring at the floor. It is the same excuse he used to tell Roose Bolton after the old man had ordered Ramsay to stop wasting his time on `that wretched creature of his.`Sansa most likely told the man something similar herself once or twice, after her new husband had slapped her face or choked her too hard.

She looks frustrated enough to kill him now. Theon almost wishes she would. He hates that she keeps seeking him out, hates being a liability, a burden. He is holding Sansa back, and it is not just her that suffers as a result, it is everyone. She could be focusing on picking up the pieces, ruling the castle, making the world a better place, but instead she is here with him, trying in vain to help the lost cause who betrayed her family. And as much as she insists that his wellbeing is worth whatever time she has had to make, he knows this cannot always be true. She loses her patience sometimes, and he cannot blame her. He knows that he is diffucult to live with; he knows because he lives with himself every second of every day and it is a constant struggle at best, and utterly unbearable at worst.

When she does not shout or try to lecture him about why hurting oneself is bad, he just watches her eat the strawberry cake she brought with her in silence, looking as if she wants to leave as soon as possible. She still seems angry, but she remains quiet, which makes him anxious, and much more resolved not to speak himself. When she has finished eating, she pours herself a glass of wine, and he sits unmoving on the floor, tugging at the hems of his cloak. He is wearing a plain, grey sack-like tunic, and a pair of worn breeches in the same color. Sansa is wearing one of her beautiful self-made dresses, is even wearing heels. Pretty. So unlike himself.

“What are you doing?” Theon asks when she sits down beside him, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“Drinking.” She tells him. “It is rather depressing to do it alone, don´t you think?”

“I don’t want any.” Theon tells her. He desperately wants her to leave, feels the frustration building in his chest.

“I guessed as much." She says.

He does not understand why she is still here, why he is still here, why they are still alive. Why she wants him to stay, after everything that has happened, after all the pain he has caused to her family. 

Winterfell has always been her home, not his. He was always a foreigner. He has no right to ask her to leave, even if it is just from his room. 

It frustrates him, not only because he is helpless before her, but because she makes him crave her closeness. He thinks of the night they had spent in the frozen woods after their escape, of how soft she had felt against his chest; an impossible warmth in a world so cold. He had felt her heartbeat, leaned into her hand on his neck, savoured the soft of her lips on his forehead. He sits down on the floor thinking about that, hating himself for enjoying it, drifting.

When the stars come out, the castle is quiet. He gets up and looks, wondering if she has left at last. The moon is shining outside the window and the air has gone cold. He puts on his boots and slips out of his room, a nervous pounding starting to build in his chest.

 _Is she alright?_ He thinks. It is not the first time. The question sticks to his brain like dirt, tainting his mind.  _Is she alright? Is she alright? Is she alright?_

He slips down the stairs as quietly as he is able. Searching for her, desperate. He finds her in the Great Hall, head hidden in her lap, breathing fast, scratching the stone floor. Enduring one of her waking dreams, it seems, the candle light looking so similar to the torchlight in his old torture chamber that it makes him want to break down as well. He thinks of the cross and the shadows that had danced on Ramsay´s smiling face, the girls that had slid their fingers under his clothes, then exhales a deep breath, his heart stuttering in his chest. He does not want to remember those things. He wants to crawl under his bed and hide, cry until he falls asleep.

He kneels down beside her, feeling the tears that is beginning to drip from his eyes. He might be crying; he sounds like he cannot breathe.

“Sansa? It´s me.” He croaks. “Theon.” Though the name does not seem right when it leaves his lips. She does not seem to register that he is here beside her, even when he is only inches away. He has always been afraid of her when she is like this, never really been sure of what to say or do. He is afraid to face the parts of this that apply to him as well. The shame, the fear and the memories of unspeakable pain.

She jerks away when he touches her arm, her back slamming into the stone wall behind her. Her face is pale when she looks at him, but she is not crying. The anger from before is gone, replaced by fear; her eyes looks as round as snowballs.

“I´m…I´m sorry.” She apologies, trying to move further away and finding out that the wall is in the way. “I´m sorry, Theon."

“It´s alright.” He cups her cheeks in his mutilated hand, trembling, and when she leans into the touch, he allows her to sag against him, pressing her forehead against his neck. She´s breathing deep, slumped down so that her heat is beating against his. He will not allow himself to flinch, his own breath raspy but tense. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to master himself, and when she runs her fingers through his tousled hair, he lets out a trembling sigh.

“Has this happened a lot recently?” Theon asks. He remembers her half-naked in Ramsay´s bed, soaking the pelts with sweat and tears, trashing and turning in her sleep. Sansa does not answer, and Theon suspects that she is not ready to speak just yet. He wraps a bony arm around her. She is sticky, dark circles under her eyes.

The moonlight is almost gone outside, the hall just barely glowing with what is left of Sansa´s candle. He wonders if he should leave, realizing only then that her hands are resting on his shoulders.

She kisses him, because she does not know what he is. It has happened once before, and then they could not seem to stop. Not at first at least, not until Theon jerked away and fled, his heart aching for something that he could never have, something that he could never deserve, never earn. Still, she kisses his nose now, his forehead, his chin and his lips. Her breath is growing faster again, her fingers gripping his neck.

“Stop-" He gasps then, and she pulls her hand away.

“Why?” she asks. She captures his lips again, pressing her own against them carefully, her sky blue eyes barely open. Some more tears fall from his eyes and she kisses them away from his cheeks. When she pulls back she lets her hands slide from his shoulders down to his sides. She bites her own lip. He cannot possibly tell her he cannot have her this way, much less show her. He cannot even look at himself, always rushing to cover himself. 

She leans in to hug him, letting him hide his face in her neck. They remain like that for a long time, Sansa´s fingers twitching on his back, Theon blinking away more tears. In this moment, he does not want her to go. She stays where she is. Then they walk back to his chamber without a word. Sansa shuts the door behind her, and takes off her boots and cloak without looking at Theon. She never looked at him during the nights with Ramsay, even when he had been ordered Theon to stare at her, even when it was him that was being molested. In bed, she crawls towards the window and watches as Theon takes off his boots, unfastens his cloak.

He simply stands there for an awkward moment, unsure if he should join her. Then she looks at her as if she is waiting for him, and he crawls down under the covers beside her. They sink into the bed, and everything is warm, and then they are edging closer, the scars on his arms brushing the ones on her palm.

They don’t kiss, but she sleepily presses her lips against his neck, which makes his heart pound, because it feels so utterly foreign and he has to fight against the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He has been alone for so long, all his life, in truth. He tries to recall the few times he has slept in the same bed with someone else, and counts them in his head. Four times, that he can remember. Two of them in a brothel, with whores that he had paid so that they would pretend to care for him, and once with Ramsay. It had been a reward, for helping him trick the ironborn into surrendering Moat Cailin. The fourth had been with Sansa.

She whimpers in her sleep, and Theon presses her against his chest, wraps her leg around his own, wishes that he was whole enough to heal her.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa starts shifting at dawn. He rolls away from her, hiding his face in the furs, not ready to think about beginning his day with her without having anywhere to run off to. She moves to press herself against him, breathing in his ear. He stiffens, wishing that she would understand, but she only edges closer, making herself uncomfortable.

He has odd, hazy dreams as the morning sun creeps through the window. Dreams that are not exactly nightmares but that are full of worry and anxiety. He dreams that he wakes up alone, wondering where Sansa has gone. When he drifts back to wakefulness, turning, he is somehow relieved to find her still in his bed.

She flutters her eyes open and slides some locks of his hair between her fingers, silently watching him. Her touch is so light, swirling his hair around in her hand. 

“What are you doing?” He whispers.

“Your hair is long.” Sansa points out. She is right. He has not attended to his hair in years, not taken a knife to it since before he was taken by Ramsay, not trusted himself (or anyone else) enough to cut it ever since his escape.

“I suppose it is.” He answers.

“Do you like it this way?” She asks.

Theon does not. It gets in his eyes. “I suppose so.”

He braces himself for her to get out of bed, to walk downstairs and start working, but she just lays there, her back crooked, reaching for his wrist. He watches her lift one side of the bandage to look at the deep cut. She sucks in a breath when she sees it.

“Theon.” She says. It startles him; when was the last time someone said his name? Not long, he realizes, but it is the first time in weeks that it really feels like _his_ name, something that belongs to him and no one else.

“It's nothing.” He tells her, yanking his arm away from her. One more scar to add to the others. Unimportant. “It´s just…I wanted to know...I wanted it to feel...Forget it, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Iwouldn’t understand?” She snorts, drawing up her knees to her chest. Theon lowers his head in shame. She has suffered the same things that he has, if only to a slightly lesser extent. If someone could possibly get what he is feeling, it is her. Still, Theon cannot bring himself to tell her.

He dresses in his boring cloak and low boots and smoothes his hair down with his fingers. When he looks in the mirror, he is paler than usual, tired. He thinks of pinching his cheeks to put some color in them, but the thought disgusts him, like everything else that involves his appearance. Sansa´s jaw is clenched when she strolls out of his room. Theon lets her go. His heart is still buzzing with the aftershocks of being so close to her, and he braces himself to hate himself for the feeling. But then he decides to go and do something of use instead. He cannot have her, because he is no longer capable of that, so it is pointless to dwell on it.

They keep close to each other that day, without meaning to. Sansa speaks to some lords and ladies about rebuilding their homes, tilting her head up like the beautiful queen that she is. Theon tries as best as he can to help out in the yard, and watches her out of the corner of his eye as she walks around with Brienne and Ghost, speaking to all kinds of people.

“Summer is coming.” She says when she bumps into him, obviously trying to jape, but Theon only stares at her, like a fool.

At midday, she prepares two bowls of soup for them and brings them outside. Theon is quiet as they eat, listening to the birds singing in the sky, wondering if she would allow him to leave to visit Yara´s grave alone. He is not certain that he wants to go alone now, and blames her for his uncertainty.

“I am going to help Arya and the others rebuild the towers.” She tells him while he sips on his soup. “So that more people can move into the castle.”

Theon does not like to be near Arya. They have not talked much since his return, but he knows that she hates him, knows that she always will. He does not blame her. He hates himself too. 

“Will you help?" Sansa asks.

“I can help.”

They work in silence, searching the fields outside the castle for stones. It is not appropriate work for a queen, but Sansa no longer seems to care about getting her hands dirty. The vain little girl from before is gone. What is left is a hardened woman, ready to do what is best for her people.

Once every moment or so they find what is left of a corpse decaying in the grass. Somebody is going to have to get rid of them soon if they ever hope to build a village here. Theon will not be that person, and neither will Sansa. She tries her best to hide it, but Theon notices that she is trembling on the ride back home.

When they dismounts in the yard, she helps the builders unload the stones from the carriage, and he fetches his bow from the armory, and heads towards the gate with his horse in tow.

“Where are you doing?” She shouts. He does not answer, but stops for a second to see if she will come and try to stop him from leaving.He wants her to. She does not.

It´s dark when he arrives at his sister's grave. It is surrounded by seashells and dead wild flowers. As wild as Yara.

 _And as dead._ He regrets thinking _._

Sometimes he spend the night here, talking to his sister until he falls asleep, but tonight he simply sits there, staring at her name, listening to the waves crashing against the beach. He came here to be with Yara, but all he can think about is Sansa, even when he desperately tries to push her from his mind. When that does not work, he stumbles to his feet and wastes three arrows, shooting the pointlessly into the sea. For a stupid moment, he considers jumping into the water and look for them, but feels lightheaded enough to faint when he stands. It is not that he has not been eating properly or that he has worked too hard collecting stones. It is something else, something that has drained him of all power.

Back in Winterfell, the sun is rising above the horizon, drenching the world in the color of salmon. He expects to find Sansa in her chamber, but only finds her empty bed. The same repetitive questions that always seems to return returns once more _. Is she alright?_ _Where is she?_ It is just like before he found her after the battle against the white walkers, the shrieks of ravens sounding like taunts, Sansa not answering his calls.

She had thrown herself into his arms when he finally found her in the castle, and he was so frightened for what he already knew but would not register for a long time after that; surviving would be absolutely pointless if he had lost her too.   

“Sansa?” He stumbles into the hall, panicked and ready to cry, though he knows that he only has himself to blame. It was him that left her in the first place. She is not there, and his breath starts to pick up as he rips off his bow and the arrows and tosses them on a table, running towards the kitchen, expecting to find her with sugar on her face, baking some stupid cake. She is not there.

He crashes into the godswood, getting no answer. Something must have happened- someone came and stole her away, someone who wants to hurt her and him and hates them. The weather has grown warmer and the war is done but they will never be safe, the memories will never leave them be, and he should have taken his sister´s advice and killed himself before he had to watch her die. He cannot survive this, cannot stop anyone from doing whatever they want to him and her and-

"Sansa?” He cries when he finds her sitting in the hot spring below the weirwood trees, her hands grasping the moss beside her. He is breathless, his voice cracking. “Didn’t you hear me calling? Sansa?” 

She does not seem to hear him, does not look at him. She does not look frightened or panicked, but indifferent, not as if she is ignoring him but as if he is invisible. A miserable gulp wells up in his throat as he kneels down beside her. He bites the inside of his cheek as he yanks off his boots, tear off his cloak and walks into the water in his plain clothes. Of course he is going to leave them on, but he does not dare to touch her below the surface, scared that he might find her naked.

Sansa is shuddering, and he should pull her out, but she has to calm down first. He reaches out to brush her cheek with his thumb, and she edges closer, wrapping herself around him at once, her legs clamped against his thighs and her arms circling his shoulders.

“Sansa?” He whispers, tracing her chin with his fingers. “I came back. I always do. I only went to visit Yara. I promise. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

She squeezes herself more firmly around him, and he starts to tremble as the chill of the night hits his face and neck. She sighs heavily, her breath tickling his neck, pushing her bare chest against his clothed one. It is only then that he realized that, she is, in fact, naked. It is not that he has not seen her naked before, but not really. She was naked on her wedding night, but then she was hidden under Ramsay´s body and Theon tried to focus on anything but her, told himself that that was all he could do for her. He remembers the day after when he was ordered to clean her, how he tried not to show his shame and failing, feeling like the biggest scum in Westeros.

“Wha-what happened?” she whispers, her voice soft but distant. She stares at him as steam rises in the air, her cheeks a little pink.

“You wanted to take a swim.” He says, threading his fingers through her red hair. “After a long day of work. Your mind traveled somewhere else. That is all. But you’re here now. You´re safe.” He swallows hard. “Do you want to go back inside? I won´t look, I prom-“

“No.” She tells him firmly, and he loses his breath when she pulls him to her and hugs him hard, one arm wrapped around his back and the other curled around his neck. His heart is beating in his chest, his breath stuttering.

“You sang to him.” He tells her without meaning to. “After the battle. You sung to Bran before he...”

Sansa sighs. “He wasn’t though; Bran I mean. Not really.”

He was some sort of god. He knew everything. How could he die?

“No. The real Bran would have me killed on sight.”

Sansa sighs and touches his long hair, and he finds himself counting her long eyelashes, one by one. When he buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes it smells like her: lemons, roses, snow. Melted snow.

“Theon?” she asks, smoothing her hand down his back.

“Hmm?”

“One day, you must forgive yourself.”

“I can´t. I tried”

“Then do it again. Again and again and again. Until it works.” She smiles, her hand sliding down to the small of his back.

Theon´s eyes goes round when she kisses him, and he shakes against her lips. He wishes that she would stop, but she only pushes her hand under his tunic, feeling the scars there, and whispers. “Let me, Theon, please, I want-“

“No, you don’t want that, I, no-“He chokes.

Her hand slips lower, and it is suddenly all too much. He shifts away, pulling her hand from him and crawling out of the water, picking up his discarded cloak and boots from the moss.

“Theon, wait.”

He does not wait.

Both of them are rigid at dinner, and Sansa does not look at him. She has a smudge of flour on her cheek, and he wants to ask her what she was baking, but at the same time, he does not want to be the one to break the silence.

There should be someone he could confide in about what is happening to him. Tarly perhaps, far away in King´s Landing – it is stupid to think of writing letters about himself and Sansa to him. If maester Luwin was alive, maybe- Theon pushes his fingers into his eyes, laying on the window sill with Ghost resting on his stomach and listens to the birds chirping outside. If Bran was alive. If Rickon. If he himself was not as good as dead, nothing left but a broken man desperately wanting to heal. If only.

His mind wanders to Jon and scoffs. The man has always disliked being the center of attention, has always seemed to dislike good weather as well, (he chose to join the bloody Night's Watch for gods sake). Yet Theon knows that he will make a good king. Even when he was a little boy, he always seemed so wise and kindhearted. Besides, he has Tyrion as his hand to help him. Anyway, Jon would most likely tell Theon that he should be grateful to be here, to have Sansa. He would misunderstand; Theon is grateful, and it is absolutely terrifying. All his life, he has ended up destroying everything and everyone good around him. He even managed to destroy himself. 

He goes back to his chamber alone, wondering if Sansa will follow him. He doubts it. It would be too awkward, after what happened in the water. When he hears her footsteps outside his door he has the pelts crunched into his fist, every inch of him tense with anticipation. She opens the door, and he waits to see if she is only here to wish him goodnight before leaving again. She clears her throat, closes the door, and his cheeks grow hot when he hears her shredding her clothes, her dress dropping to the floor.

“Theon? Are you awake?” She asks. He does not answer, squeezes his eyes shut and lays unmoving, his back to her. She crawls into the bed and undoes her braid, the ends of her hair tickling his arm as she smoothes it out. He is trembling, terrified that she will realize that he is awake. She touches his neck, making him flinch. He is wearing clothes, but even through the cotton he can feel the warmth of her body when she inches closer.

“You don’t want me.” He whispers shakily, surrendering. “You wanted to marry a handsome brave prince like the maidens did in the songs. I´m just what you ended up with after they all died. I´m naught but a leftover.”

“You´re wrong.” She tells him, settling down behind him, her fingers tracing across his back, just barely. “You are a prince, and you are brave. You´re the bravest person that I know. As for being handsome, I always thought that. Even as a girl. I remember thinking that your eyes looked like the sea, even though I had never actually seen it.”

Theon stares at her, touched but unconvinced. They lay there for a long while after that, simply adjusting to the warmth. It feels good, waking his body when it has been dead for so long, even when his mind starts to drift closer to oblivion.

His first dream is about Sansa pressing down on him, her body so soft that he tries to pull her down against him, wanting to press his lips to hers and melt against her skin. It is her that melts though, his fingers passing right through her, and she cries out in agony when he pierces her stomach.

After that, the dreams get worse. He hobbles outside, breathless, and somehow certain that this time he will find Sansa in the kennels, but once he throws open the bars the cages are full of dying women, begging and bleeding and barking like Ramsay´s hounds. He flinches and runs away, searching for Sansa, refusing to give up even when he finds her dead, moving around in the godswood in her ripped white wedding dress, her eyes as blue as death. He weeps and kneels before her, losing control when she struggles, trying to hold her still, his throat raw with a silent scream. He cannot stop, he has no power, he is useless, and she will kill him-

He wakes up sobbing. Sansa is trying to calm him, but he is so scared that he cannot make sense of his words. His first instinct is to edge away and run so that she cannot hurt him, but the urge to grab hold of her after a dream like this takes over, and he wraps himself so tightly around her that he knows that it must hurt. His breath is fast, his heart pounding against her chest as he hides his face in her neck. He is crying hard, his entire being shaking as if he has been struck by lightning.

“Theon, Theon.” She says, over and over, looking frightened herself. She cups his hand around the back of his head, kissing his forehead, strokes his hair. “You´re here. You´re alright.”

“Sansa.” He whispers, the name falling apart as he edges closer, burying his nose in her shoulder, trying to convince himself that it was not real. “Sansa, you were, you-“

He never tried to tell her about his dreams before. She does not need to know what he sees when he falls asleep; she was there for some of it herself.

"It´s alright, Theon.” She shushes him. “It´s over. You´re safe.”

“I´m safe.” He repeats. This only makes him weep harder, press further. He hears her grit her teeth, trying to master himself.

“No one is going to take us away.  I promise.”

“You can´t do that.” He tells her, choking the words out. “No one can promise anything. Someone might take me, take you, and I´ll become him again, I'll become Ree-"

“That´s not going to happen.”

“You can´t know that. It has happened before, and I, Yara-“

“I know, just, shh.”

“You think that I don’t want you.” He says after a long moment, shifting to face her, showing her the mess of his scrunched up face. “I made you believe that.”

She looks at him, mouth open, her hand sweaty in his. He hides again, burying his face in her hair, his nose brushing her neck. He will regret this when he wakes fully. He has made a fool of himself. Her fingers slips to his skin, her touch almost cautions now. She lets out a deep breath, and swallows, her chest falling along his own, rising again when she inhales.

“It´s alright.” She says, stroking his hair. He hiccups, knows that he won´t fall asleep again. At least not now. For a long time they simply lie there, Sansa´s back pressed against the bedframe, Theon sprawled out on top of her, his arms circled around her neck. She traces her hands down his back the way he did to her when they were on the run, and what he meant as a yawn slips out as a broken groan. She moves, and draws the pelts up over their bodies.

“Don’t stop.” He whispers, the words muted against her skin.

“Hmm?”

“The…what you were doing-”

She understands after a few moments, her hands trailing across his back again. He is certain that her promises does not mean anything, that someone could come and hurt them any moment, some Bolton survivor or such- people will always do what whatever they want, and some northerners still hate him for what he did. They may not have a great deal of time, every day together is a blessing. And in his mind, the war will live on forever.


	3. Chapter 3

As the air grow warmer, things gets colder between Theon and Sansa. She keeps ruling the castle, and he wanders the woods, sometimes riding, somethings simply walking. Every second or so, he checks over his shoulder to see if anyone is following him, only to find blooming trees and butterflies. 

Most nights, he goes to bed first, but sometimes she arrives there before him, sprawled out on her back, taking up too much room and making it impossible for him not to touch her. She is there to wake him from bad dreams, there to hold him when he is scared, but she does not kiss him again. At times he wakes up to her mouth pressed against the back of his neck, Sansa asleep and unknowing. One night, while he is shifting to his side, she whimpers so gently and presses against him in her sleep. He escapes into the broken tower, kneels down on the cold floor and tries to think of anything but her.

On another day, he wakes at first light to practice with his bow and realizes on the way out that he has left his key to the armory in his chamber. He tries to be quiet when he sneaks back into his room, not wanting to wake her, but he trips over her dress after he sees her curled up beneath the furs, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her hand moving under the blanket. He keeps away all day, firing a thousand arrows, his fingers turning raw and red as the sun starts to dip low in the sky, a purple twilight drenching the world. He avoids her gaze before they goes to sleep that night. 

Sansa still has her breakdowns, and he has learnt how to calm her. First he has to get her up. Then he has to hold her close, all the while looking into her eyes, stroke her back and tell her that it is going to be alright. After that the calm in her eyes will come back slowly, and she will begin to breathe properly, her body relaxing against his own. He always wants to kiss her as that happens, just gently, slowly, but he never does. He just looks at her, feeling his heart shrink in his chest, suffocating but still keeping his distance.

The air thickens and the heat begin to linger after sundown, making the fur pelts on the bed uncomfortable. Sansa crawls into the bed in only her nightdress, and Theon wakes in the night to watch her as she seems to glimmer in the pale moonlight that reflects off her sweaty skin. The warmth causes his entire body to flush, and he has to get out of bed and talk himself out of touching her. He knows that he is not worthy, or capable, or whole enough.

One day, Jon comes to visit with Lyanna and the others. Snow tries to convince Arya to stay and dine with them, but she tells them that she will not feast in the same room as the traitor. Theon offers to leave in her stead, but she does not seem to hear him. She leaves without another word. 

Sansa has spent the day making too much food for the guests, and Theon hopes and wishes that they will eat it all, eat until they starts to retch from being so full so that he can leave.

Tyrion brings his own wine, hovering over Theon´s mashed carrots, jabs him in the arm and tries to joke with him, and Theon forces a small grin, trying to act normal.

At one point, Sansa grabs his hand under the table, which freezes him in place, making him forget what he was about to do. Eat the potato? Wipe up the spilled wine that has started to soak his right sleeve? He turns and glances at her, hoping that she is not looking. She does not notice him staring, too busy speaking to Tarly and his wife.

Podrick Payne babbles on about how much he likes the bread and Theon suspects that he is drunk, telling Sansa how much he admires her and making her blush from his sweet words. He looks handsome and strong, his eyes brown and warm in his face, his cloak a beautiful shade of crimson. Theon looks like he has been in the woods all day, which he has, and he ran back to the castle to wash his hair, which is tousled and still too long around his shoulders. The bandage around his wrist is gone, but there is still a white, thin line. No one said or saw anything of it- he is covered in scars, as anyone who know anything about him would expect. Jon told him he looked better, but Theon did not believe him.

Podrick´s presence makes the entire hall feel cramped, cramped between his constant rambling and handsome smile. He tells them all about the improvements in King´s Landing, which has thrived under the direction of Jon. Theon pops open another bottle of Tyrion´s wine and refills his goblet.  

“It´s hard to believe that it´s already been five moons since the war ended.” Tarly´s wife says. Theon looks up in surprise. He did not know that it had been so long. Sansa seems to catch this on her face and gives him a pitying smile that frustrates him. He downs more wine as he listens to Payne and Sansa talk about the weather, smiling. Theon wonders if they used to talk like this after he had left them in the woods: Podrick offering Sansa comfort, a spark of lightning in her otherwise grim day. After a while they notice his silence and an awkwardness grows as Podrick tries to involve him in the conversation.

“The castle looks better than ever.” He tells Theon. “It´s amazing how it survived the flames.”

“I suppose so.” Theon says, swaying where he sits. Payne glances at Sansa nervously, unsure of what else to say.

“Tyrion´s wine is really a thing of itself.” Sansa says, tapping her empty cup. “Strong.” Theon ignores her attempt to indirectly ask him to stop drinking. He grabs the bottle and pours himself another, wishing Yara was here. She would never ask him to stop.

He gets up from the table.

“Theon.” Sansa says, firmly. He frowns and stumbles from his seat.

“Calm down.” He says. “I´m just getting your lemon cake.”

“I love lemon cakes.” Podrick says, smiling.

“They´re my favorites.” Sansa says. “My mother used to have the cooks bake them for me when I was little. She had a bit of a sweet tooth herself.”

“And I always liked to imagine their taste.” Theon says, perfectly aware that he is being rude now. “Lemons were too much of a finery for hostages, I guess.”

“I never got to eat many of them myself. My father worried that I might get fat. ” Podrick says, trying to enlighten the mood. Sansa gives Theon a look when he sets the cake down, seeming slightly worried, as if she suspects that he might throw up all over it. He gives her an toothless smile and pours himself another cup of wine.

They feast for another hour or so, Podrick and Sansa talking, Theon drinking wine and blaming himself for Yara´s death. Surely it must have been something he could have done differently; acted earlier, attacked Euron during the King´s moot, convinced his sister to sail north instead of east. Theon always misses her more when people are being too optimistic or cheerful. (Or when they treat him as if he is made out of glass. Then he wishes she was here to bark at him.)

The visitors sleeps in the guest rooms, Jon and Lyanna in Snow's boy chamber, and Sansa makes sure they has everything that they need: clothes and blankets and water. Theon brings Jon´s silver-haired little daughter a glass of hot milk, feeling a little guilty now for being so quiet during the feast.

“How´s King´s Landing?” He asks, as Jon settles in. For a moment, he reminds Theon of Robb so much that his chest hurts, then Lord Stark, even Arya, who is sulking in her room. Jon is kind, but they will never truly be friends.

“Warmer than it is here.” He says, trying to keep Lyanna from jumping up and down in the bed.

“I´m sorry.” Theon says awkwardly, but Jon only chuckles.

“No, summer is the best thing that has happened to us. I´m just worried that my dear wolf might be dying from heatstroke.”

“We´ll give him a haircut.” Theon says, swallowing hard. “Furcut...I´ll see to it myself.”

Sansa is pulling off her boots as he walks into his chamber. He feels her eyes on him but will not look back. His head is still buzzing from the wine, and he is so tired of being like this, but he cannot seem to stop.

“Have you sobered up yet, Tyrion?” She asks.

“I was never drunk.” He tells her, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Of course not.” Sansa says. “Come here.”

“Why?” He slurs, meeting her eyes.

“Just come.” She says, more sharply this time. Her expression is stern but not angry, and realizing this causes a hot lump of heat to stir in the pit of his belly. He stays where he is, hesitating, and she smiles.

“Why are you even here?” He asks, bent to spend the night by himself. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Alright.” She says. “Then I suppose I´ll come to you.” She walks up to him, and his whole body goes rigid, not knowing what she will do next. When she reaches him he can see it in her eyes, and he exhales sharply even before she grabs hold of him, presses him back against the wall and pushes her lips against his. He tastes lemon cake on her tongue.

If he was drunk before, he is absolutely falling off the edge now, opening his mouth for her, her arms wrapped around his back, her hot tongue licking the inside of his mouth. Her mouth drops down to his throat and he tilts his head back, giving her full access, wanting her mouth all over him.

“You were jealous.” She tells him as she pulls back to look at him, smiling. He slips out of her hold. He is drunk, but perhaps she is as well.

“What do you mean?” He asks. She just keeps smiling and pushes him towards the bed. He does not know if she wishes to shove or cling to him, and as she makes him sit down on the bed he places his hands around her arms to stop her from dropping down on him.

“Of Podrick Payne.” She laughs. “At first I thought you were simply drunk, but then it hit me. You were _jealous.”_ She is grinning, and he wants to push her away, but not as badly as he wants to pull her down and kiss her.

She kisses him again before he can, pulling his mouth down to hers. He lets her, at first, allows her to suck at his throat and open the front of his doublet. She pants into his mouth and presses closer, one hand fisted in his hair and the other behind his back, trying to slip her fingers under his doublet.

It is enough to jerk him out of whatever trance he has found himself in. He steps back quickly, away from her touch. She withdraws her hands as if she has been burnt. "No, don´t-...I can´t" He rasps, his voice breaking slightly, his cheeks burning. She needs to know, he needs to tell her, but it is so hard, so shameful and he cannot- 

"It´s alright, Theon. I know." She says, and he frowns in confusion. She grabs his hand and continues. "Ramsay liked to...to brag while he...It spurred him on I think, but I don´t...I don´t care about that. I still...I still want you.I still want to be with you." 

Her words sink in, and he is suddenly trembling all over, staring at the ground. "Sansa-" he starts, but his voice cracks and his eyes fills with tears. 

"Theon." She whispers, and takes a step towards him and then another, reaches out slowly. She is giving him ample time to move away, but something keeps him rooted to the spot. Her touch is gentle, hesitant. When she kisses him again he has to keep himself from sobbing. She knows, and yet she is still kissing him. It does not make any sense. 

He should tell her to stop, run away, but a part of him wants this, wants her, wants her to want him, even now, after everyhting. So he lets her, lets her pull him down onto the bed and guide his hands down her body. Her breathing has grown harder, and when she finally presses his hand between her thighs he can feel how wet she is, how hot. It shocks him.

"I want-" He murmurs, breathless and nervous, but she holds his eyes. "I want to try something-" 

He withdraws his hands and encourages her to sit forward. He untangles his legs from around her and maneuvers her until she’s sitting back against the bed, Then he is on his knees in front of her. He likes that. It is where he should be.

"Do you..." the question seems stupid coming from him, but he still needs to ask. "Do you trust me?" 

"Yes." 

Continuing to hold her gaze, he inches her undercloths down, making sure to hook his thumbs through the fine silk covering her heat. He pulls them down slowly, giving her the chance to stop him. Her breath only quickens. Soon he has removed them and he gently spreads her legs, placing himself between them. Finally, he breaks their eye contact to look down. He gasps at seeing her, glistening and pink. He has never really seen a woman bared to him this way and he thinks she is beautiful. He had never even considered doing this before, to pleasure someone alone, but now it is all that he is capable of, and he thinks that even if that was not the case, he still would not want to do anything but this.

"You´re beautiful." He blurts. She smiles,  and he leans forward and tastes her. He had not known what to expect, but it is unlike anything he has ever tasted and he likes it. He laps at her, enjoying the feeling of rolling her nub with his tongue. She is making the most beautiful sounds, and he hums in satisfaction. 

"Theon-" She gasps as she pulls at his hair, holding his face into her folds. Curious about what it would feel like to have his tongue close by her passage, he shifts, and thrusts against her, as slowly as he can. 

She is pulling him up, trying to get him to return to that bud and he complies, worrying slightly that he did something wrong. He takes it between his lips and sucks.

 "Ah-" She gasps out. " Not so-" 

He pulls back, shaking slightly. "I...I'm sorry, I-." 

She only shakes her head and smiles. "It´s alright. Just, do what you did before." Her cheeks are as red as her hair. "I...I liked that." 

“Like this?” he asks as he descends upon her again, circling his tongue around her nub firmly.

 "Yes, just like-" and her words are lost to her whimpering. He keeps his fingers stroking between her folds and finds a pace she seems to enjoy while licking at her nub.

She begins to pull at his hair sharply as her other hand slams down on the pillow as she calls out. "Theon, Theon-" He suddenly, madly, wants her to wake the entire castle, he wants her to wake Payne. Let them hear. He wants them to.

Her body begins to trash against him and then she is almost screaming. The sound irks him at first but then he is meeting her gaze and the feeling of fear vanishes, replaced by her warmth and her glow and her smile as she whimpers his name.

Afterwards she kisses him, hot and slick and perfect as she tries to calm her breathing. He opens his eyes and finds that she is is looking straight at him, into him almost, her eyes glimmering, river blue. Nobody has ever seen all the way into him the way she can, known so much. 

 _Nobody except Ramsay, that is._ He corrects himself bitterly.

“Can you take this off?” She asks, reaching for his open doublet, and suddenly he can barely recall how undressing works. He nods, and she helps him take it off. She pulls him to her mouth, kissing him so deeply that he gasps. He is practically drooling for her, which seems funny until her hand drops down to his breeches, playing with his lacings.

“What about these?” She asks, whispers almost, placing a kiss on his nose. He suppresses a whine.

She meets his eyes. “I won´t look, I promise, not until you want me to.”

“I don’t-“He whispers, but eventually he allows her to slide down his pants, slowly, and he is grateful for the dark and the covers on top of them. She buries her face in his hair, pulling off the last of her own clothes. He gasps when she wraps her legs around his back and kisses his scarred chest while he tries to breathe. He is lying naked with a woman for the first time ina lifetime, someone who he wants and who wants him and then he has to stop, the thought so overwhelming that it hurts his head.

He has not been touched like this-like a real person, like he is worth something-ever before. Before he captured Winterfell, when he had all the parts he was born with and his name still felt like his own. Back when he could only pretend that the whores that he felt nothing for wanted him instead of the coin in his pocket.

They has watched each other fall so many times, in dreams and in what might have been called life. In his mind they are falling right now, their past suddenly so difficult to believe, but it feels like a good fall, one that they can survive together. Nothing seems more real than this, both of them curled up in his bed, their bodies damp in the summer air as Sansa edges closer to press her lips to his. She smells good, like the ocean and roses mixed together, not just lemons anymore.

“Is this alright?” She asks. "Are you alright?"

“Aye.” He whispers, feeling hazy. “Are you?”

“I am.” She smiles and presses her nose to his, her lashes long against her cheeks. “More than.”

When he sleeps, he still dreams, but the nightmares are screaming at him from miles away now, so distant that he can barely even hear them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.Wow I finally updated this. 
> 
> 2\. I edited the earlier chapters a litte, so if you´re an old reader you might want to reread them. (It´s only minor changes, but I put some more stuff in.) 
> 
> 3\. This chapter is pretty short. Sorry about that.

The next few weeks, he is tense, except when he is pressed against her skin, then he is as pliable as water, letting her pull him down onto her, nervous yet intrigued as she guides his hand between her thighs. He discovers that he truly likes making her peak, enjoys hearing her gasp when he meets her eyes and squirm when he kisses her mouth. He takes pride in it, and it is nice to know, that even after all these years he still remembers how to pleasure a woman.

Still, it bothers him that that is all that he is capable of doing. He can draw pleasure from her, but she is unable to return the favor. Even if he wanted to, and there is in fact times when he feel like he does, like some long lost part memory that he will never retrieve-though as much as he wants to, it is simply not possible, because of Ramsay.

So instead, he takes what he can by trying his best to give her whatever she wants. He is always careful, so careful that there are times when she has to tell him that she is not made of porcelain, that she will not break under his fingertips. He smiles at that, but in truth he is still terrified of hurting her, petrified of doing something that will turn him into Ramsay. She is scared of it too, he knows, even if she tries her best not to let it show.

One early morning, a month or so after Jon and the others has returned to King´s Landing, the two of them lay in bed, half-sleeping as pink sunlight creeps through the window. Sansa picks up an old letter and fans him with it, which makes him grin. He expected her to be gone by now, but she does not seem to be in a hurry. Leaning down, she kisses some of the vast scars across his chest before pressing her nose against his neck, closing her eyes.

An hour or so later, they finally walks downstairs to collect some breakfast, him dressed in yesterday´s clothes and her wearing one of his oversized tunics. He considers telling her that it would be wiser not to, that people might start to suspect that the valiant queen is bedding the despised, half-mad turncloak, but a part of him knows that she will not hear it. 

He walks outside to pick some blueberries from the castle´s new garden, desperately wishing that he had some snow so that he could make a cool drink. In the pantry, he arranges some food on a plate for himself – the berries, some soft cheese, a piece of bread, butter – humming to himself, when he hears footsteps outside the door.

His body instantly tenses with fear and he reaches for the bread knife before he can even consider that it is most likely just some friendly resident. Still, his guts tells him differently and he whirls around, shaking but ready to strike.

“Who is it?” He means to shout, but it sounds more like a whimper. He presses his back against the wall, not wanting to give the intruder the advantage by showing his face in the window that frames the door. 

“Put it down, Greyjoy.” Arya says, and for half a second her voice seems so young, a part the little wild girl he once knew here, as if she never grew up. When he hesitates, she continues. “If I wanted to kill you, do you think I would let a _bread knife_ stop me?”

Theon lowers the knife, but doesn’t move, trying to calm his breathing. Arya is knocking on the door, becoming agitated. Theon hears another voice, a darker one, and he narrows his eyes, only half-recognizing it. He leaves the plate of food on the table and opens the door, already mad at himself for overreacting.

“Would you move?” Arya asks, staring up at him, and when his eyes dart to the man standing next to her, he instantly recognizes him as Gendry, Robert Baratheon´s bastard son.

He can hear Sansa approaching them by the sound of her steps before he turns to see her. She must have heard their voices from her working chamber. She is still wearing his tunic, and her hair is tousled and a little greasy, her eyes as round as the moon. When Arya spots her, she narrows her eyes, and Theon knows that she is in the process of connecting the dots.

Gendry looks to Sansa and bows his head. “Lady Sansa.” He greets her.

“Gendry.” She says.

Theon looks at Sansa, whose eyes have changed. He reads embarrassment there, which hurts him a little, then fear, and finally just plain awkwardness.  

Theon cannot stand it. “I need to…water the plants.” He stutters, glancing at Arya and bolts up the stairs, his face on fire. Inside his chamber, he slides down against the door and brings his knees up to his chest, listening to the voices down on the first floor. Gendry´s deep laugh, Arya´s suspicious voice, Sansa´s strained hospitality. The blankets are still tousled, and the entire room smells like him and Sansa, their sweat, their skin. Anxiously, he wonders if Arya smelled him on her sister´s skin. He puts his hands over his face and wills himself to wake from this bad dream.

* * *

She has learned to fake composure, and though doing so again might break her in half, she tries to not let her embarrassment show. They don´t speak until they have reached the Godswood. Sansa leans against a white weirwood tree and watches as Arya chews on her lip, her fingers laced behind her back.

“I´m leaving.” Arya says at last, breaking the silence.

Sansa stares at her little sister´s face. “What?”

“I know I promised you, promised Jon that I would try to stay….to start over, but…I can´t.” Arya says, shaking her head.

Sansa looks at her, shocked and a little hurt. “With Gendry?” She asks. “Is that why he´s here?”

“We used to travel together, once, after I escaped King´s Landing. He is a good man, loyal. “She glares at Sansa. “Which is more than I can say for _him_.”

She frowns. “Arya-”

"Sansa."

"You don't know him."

Arya snorts, rolling her eyes. “What is he still doing here anyway?” She drawls, crunching some wood under her boot.  “He is a traitor. You owe him nothing.”

Sansa raises her eyes. “Yes I do.” She says, though she regrets it at once, thinking that her sister will take it the wrong way. “I owe him my life. But that is not why he´s here.”

“Then tell me.” Arya says, looking impatient. “The Iron Islands has no current ruler, why can´t you just-“  

“Send him back there?” Sansa rises to her feet, almost spitting with anger. “Pyke is a ruin, the castle is burnt to the ground. The islands are overrun by outlaws and savages. And Even if they weren't, even if Theon was well enough to rule, I would never ask him to leave Winterfell. I would never ask him to leave m-“She bites her lip, stopping herself.

Arya sighs, her eyes softening a little, in understanding or pity Sansa cannot tell. “If he´s helped you, fine. It´s just that…I´m worried. What if he breaks again? What if he drags you down with him this time? Besides, the north remembers. They will never forgive him for his crimes against our family. ”

“He will not break as long as I´m by his side.”

“Why?” Arya asks coldly. “Because he loves you? He loved Robb as well. Yet he betrayed him and seized his home.”

“This is entirely different.” Sansa snarls. “He has changed, you know he has.”

“It´s a little sad.” Arya tells her, meeting her eyes. Hers are grey as steel. Stark grey. “You taking care of him. I wish you would focus on yourself instead.”

“He´s more to me than that.” She says. She lifts her brow and Arya smiles sadly. Sansa thinks of the moment after the battle against the white walkers when ran across the battlefield, stumbling over corpses and screaming Arya´s name until her throat went raw, so overcome by the memory that she feels herself teetering, still so afraid of losing her. When she throws her arms around her shoulders, her little sister hugs her hard, letting out her breath against her shoulder.

“I don’t want you to leave.” She says, squeezing her. “This is your home.”

Arya strokes her hair. “It doesn’t feel like home.” She whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “Not anymore, not really.”

“Arya-“

“I like it here, I do. I like being so close to you, to be safe.” She pauses, collecting her words. “It´s just that… I miss it. The fear, the excitement. The adventures. I miss it so bad. I miss feeling alive.”

Sansa sighs and steps back, holding Arya by her shoulders.

She chews her lip, obviously working up the courage to say something. Sansa steels herself, afraid to hear it.

“Is he fucking you?” Arya asks after a long moment of silence.

Sansa blushes and shoves her hands from her sister´s shoulders. She is planning to deny it before she even realizes that doing so would mean lying to her, and why should she? She is not ashamed, except that she is, for some reason. She is no longer embarrassed or scared of the act itself, just by how much she likes it.

“Are you fucking him?” She asks instead. She doesn’t like the taste of the word, doesn’t think it fits in her mouth. It does not sound right. Her saying that. Still, at the end of the day, she trusts her sister. She knows that she would never tell a soul.

“I thought you wanted to marry a noble prince with golden hair and silk clothes.” Arya scoffs.

Sansa smiles. “So did I, once.”


End file.
